Pretty Girl Gone Read Free

inexorably with time. Rather it was a lasting beauty, the kind that inspires the imagination, like the canvas of a Pre-Raphaelite master that a discerning collector might study for hours, days, perhaps even a lifetime; examining, evaluating, analyzing each line, each curve, each brush stroke until he falls helplessly, hopelessly, permanently in love. I had thought so even when I was a kid, even before I knew what fine art looked like.
    “It’s good to see you,” I said.
    “Long time,” she told me.
    A waitress appeared, set two menus before us, and asked for drink orders. Lindsey requested iced tea after first being assured that the Groveland Tap brewed its own. I had the same.
    The waitress grinned brightly. “It’ll be just a moment, Mrs. Barrett.” Lindsey nodded her approval. The waitress departed and Lindsey sighed deeply, pulled off the knit hat, and dropped it on the bench next to her.
    “Ah, the joys of celebrity,” I told her.
    “I wanted our meeting to be secret.”
    “Why?”
    The waitress reappeared. I wondered when I had last seen such brisk service.
    “Here you go, hon,” she said, setting the beverages before us. “Would you like to order now?”
    “Later, perhaps,” Lindsey said.
    “I’m Terry, Mrs. Barrett. You just give me a wave when you’re ready.”
    “Thank you, Terry.”
    The waitress left without once looking at me.
    Lindsey frowned.
    “Shake it off, Zee,” I said, like she was a teammate who had just gone down swinging. “You grew up not far from here. People would recognize you even if you weren’t the first lady.”
    “Zee. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a good, long time.”
    “How’s Linda?” I asked, just to be polite.
    “Working on her fourth marriage.”
    “Too bad.”
    “She should have stayed with you.”
    “We were children when we knew each other. If we had stayed together, it would have only ended up being the
first
marriage for both of us.”
    “You never did marry, did you?”
    “No.”
    “What’s holding you back?”
    “I’m still waiting for you to realize that I’m the man you’ve been searching for your entire life and that you made a terrible, terrible mistake marrying Barrett. That’s why you called, right?”
    “McKenzie, you are a terrible flirt.”
    “When you say that, do you mean I flirt a lot or that I don’t do it well?”
    “Both.”
    “Why did you call?”
    She didn’t reply. Instead, she gazed at our drinks for a few moments, and then at the walls of the booth and finally at me. She was dressed in silk and cashmere; a long, charcoal-colored wool coat hung on the hook next to the booth. She looked like she had never wanted for anything, but that was merely a carefully cultivated illusion. I knew her when she worked the camera counter at Walgreen’s to put herself through school.
    “What is it, Zee?”
    “Probably nothing. It’s just—It just makes me so angry.”
    “What does?”
    “I heard that you do favors for people.”
    “Sometimes. For friends.”
    “Am I a friend?”
    “You know you are.”
    “Perhaps you can do a favor for me—for old time’s sake.”
    “Sure.”
    “Be careful. You haven’t heard what it is yet.”
    “Doesn’t matter.
If
I can help you, I will—for old time’s sake.”
    Her voice was serious, yet her mouth formed a smile that was almost giddy, as if she had gone some time without hearing good news. Lindsey reached into her bag and brought out an 8½ by 11 sheet of white paper folded twice and slid it across the table to me. I unfolded it. It was a hard copy of an e-mail. It read:
John Allen Barrett murdered his high school sweetheart, Elizabeth Rogers, in Victoria, Minnesota, and the police covered it up so he could become a basketball hero. If he runs for the U.S. Senate, I will expose him to the world.
    “Whoa,” I said.
    “It’s a lie.” She spoke the word like she had just discovered its meaning. “A big lie.”
    “I should hope so.”
    I examined the e-mail